Cats Can't Shoot: A Pru Marlowe Pet Noir #2 (Pru Marlowe Pet Mysteries)

by Clea Simon

  “Don’t get out!” I yelled the words out loud, concentrating as hard as I could on my memory of the cat. “It’s not safe. Stay!”

  I tried not to think of how terrified that poor cat probably was. She would probably leap out at the first chance, desperate to escape from that noisy bumpy ride. From the woman who had thrown her back there. I got a strong image of the Persian cowering in the back of the trunk, white fur against gray utility carpeting. I hoped it wasn’t just wishful thinking.

  It didn’t matter. Keeping the gun raised, Louise rooted around in the trunk. I heard a howl and a muffled curse. Those gloves could only do so much, and in a moment she was stepping toward the side of the road—the cat once again suspended from her hand.

  “So sorry to meet and run.” She turned toward me again, her smile colder than the sheen of the gun barrel. She saw me looking. “Oh, don’t worry. I can’t risk another gun ‘accident.’ Don’t think I’ll have to, really. That old car, the weather…. They’re predicting another hard freeze.”

  She walked over to the verge. The cat was struggling, but Robin held her tight. “Isn’t it awful what happens to animals out here?” She was smiling. I could hear it in her voice. “That’s nature, I guess.” And with that she tossed the cat into the woods and ran back to her car.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Wallis was right. I was getting soft. Maybe fatally so. I should have run after Robin. Tackled her to the ground as she stooped to enter her car. I should have grabbed the gun—and then got my phone. Instead, I went after the cat. It wasn’t the smart move, but smarts didn’t play into it. A small voice calling for help was all I heard.

  “Kitty! Don’t run!” Even with her white fur, I wouldn’t be able to find her if she dashed into the woods. “Kitty!” Hell, with that fur even if she survived the storm, she’d be easy prey out here. I thought of the coyotes. The hawk.

  Out on the highway, I heard the tires of Louise’s fancy sedan squeal, as Robin turned and sped away. I thought briefly about tire tracks—about evidence—and realized that everything would point to Louise, would implicate us both. It would be my word against hers, and she’d done her best to turn the gossips of Beauville against me. I could only hope Robin would skid on her way back to civilization. At least under the trees, I had some shelter from the snow. “Kitty?”

  “Here.” Huddled against a fallen tree, I made out a spot of white. Melted snow, but no. “I’m here.”

  Heedless of the pain in my wrist, I scooped up the soft white creature and buried my face in her fur. She smelled like talcum powder, like warm cat.

  “Kitty.” I murmured into that white softness. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I called to you. Twice.” Her voice, now that I heard it, was clear but soft. The same voice I had heard twice before. “You people…None of you…”

  I didn’t really need the images that now flashed through my head. Cages. Other animals, lots of them. The comfort of another, a mother, taken away too soon. Hands, strangers. More cages. Not the shelter—a cattery, overcrowded, and factory-like. And here I was, assuming a pedigreed animal had a soft life. Louise had rescued her and given her—to Robin? Yes, but Robin was the intermediary, the gift-bearer. It was Donal who had taken her into his heart. Donal who had loved her, and he was gone. Nobody else mattered. Life no longer mattered. The grief, the overwhelming sadness that I had expected from the widow, I now felt—in Donal Franklin’s cat.

  “You don’t trust any of us, do you?”

  “I did. It was my fault.”

  “It wasn’t.” I thought of the gun. “It couldn’t have been.”

  In response, all I saw was Donal. His face, his hands. And an overwhelming flood of grief, of self-recrimination. She should never have warmed to anyone else. Never trusted anyone else. Especially not the woman who had at first seemed so kind. The woman who had betrayed them both.

  “Is that why you won’t talk to me?” I paused, thinking back on all our interactions. “Is that why you won’t tell me your name? Why—wait!”

  The animal twisted in my arms, every muscle tensed.

  “What is it?” Shadows had closed in, and I knew my senses were no match for the cat’s. “Did Louise—”

  “Dog. Large dog.” I felt her claws dig into me. “Wolf.”

  “I don’t think we have wolves here anymore.” As I said it, I remembered the notice on Albert’s desk. I’d dismissed it. Still, alone, in the dark, a pack of coyotes or feral dogs would be just as dangerous. Besides, now that the initial shock had worn off, I was freezing. The thick canopy could not protect us from the worst of the storm. “Time for us to go.”

  Holding the cat as much for warmth as for her protection, I hiked back up toward the road. Already, a layer of white covered the asphalt, melting to slushy ice where the tire treads had left their mark. The phone—I smiled remembering my own bad toss. It had to be near where she had stopped. And it was: beneath the tire treads. Through luck or malice, Robin had run over the little device, shattering its plastic case and leaving its insides open to the elements. Luck? I could have laughed. Robin had this figured from the start.

  The cat was straining in my arms at this point, and I longed to let her down. My arm ached and I knew she wanted freedom of movement. I couldn’t risk it, though. If she were spooked—or decided not to trust me—she could head out to where I couldn’t help her. We might not have wolves, but something was out there. Instead, I returned to my car.

  “Here we go.” I deposited her on the passenger seat, where she immediately began to groom.

  “Heat, please.”

  I couldn’t help smiling. This Persian might not have had the easiest life, but she was used to certain standards. “I’ll do my best.”

  I’d left the key in the ignition, and with a small wordless prayer reached for it. No, my wrist was too badly hurt. I couldn’t grasp it to turn. Next to me, the cat stopped bathing to watch, as I reached awkwardly around with my left hand and turned the key.

  A click, a rumble. I tapped on the gas. Nothing. I made myself pause before trying again, knowing that a flooded engine would have less chance of turning over. Tried the key. A click, no rumble. One more time, and even the click was gone. Robin at the garage. I remembered my other “accident.” Saturday night—after Doc Sharpe had accused me of taking the cat. She couldn’t have known anything, not for sure, but she wasn’t the sort to take chances. I guessed I should be grateful that this time I had simply drifted to the side of the road.

  In the fading light, the Persian’s white fur looked luminous, a warm counterpoint to the falling snow.

  “I’m afraid we’re stuck here for a bit, kitty.” Her blue eyes looked up at me. “Could we use the time to get acquainted?”

  Just then, a blast of wind came roaring down from the hillside, startling us both. Funneled by the highway, it rattled the car, blowing wet snow up in clumps against the glass. In a car of this vintage, the doors and windows never completely close, and the wind whistled at the cracks, howling and moaning like a hungry animal, eager to get in. I longed to reach for the cat. Instead, I turned toward her, and she to me. I thought of a fireside, of warm blankets, of light. She blinked and slowly began to let me in. I sensed fur, a velvet pillow. The way paws could sink into deep down as they kneaded a duvet. Together we created an image of safety that helped stave off panic. I could not guess what dark fears remained behind those blue eyes, but I let myself believe in our shared vision of comfort until the unearthly cry died down.

  Then I took a breath. It was time to make a move. To plan how exactly I, the human in the equation, was going to get us out of an untenable situation. And then we heard it: an answering howl. Louder and more wild. This time, it came from outside the car. It came from the woods.

  Chapter Fifty

  “This is not the time to panic.” The blue eyes looked up at me, blank and once again mute. “Or to withdraw.”

  Through my own fear, I sensed what was happening. Humans had be
trayed this cat too often. My failure to protect her, to get us out of the storm, was another failure, and she had retreated into some distant feline space.

  “Please, work with me.” I licked my lips. They’d gone dry, chapped in the cold. “I need your help.”

  That wind again, rattling the window. I saw the Persian hunch back, as if she could sink into the seat, but I fought the urge to stroke her. To this cat, such contact would not suggest comfort.

  “You were betrayed.” I kept my voice low and even. “We’re not all like that. Your person wasn’t, was he?”

  For a moment, I thought I’d touched her, so strong was the impression of hand on fur, long silky fur. That wasn’t my hand, though. I saw a man’s long fingers and felt a warmth the Persian had never shared with me. “Donal.”

  As soon as I said his name, the cat recoiled. Of course, the shooting. “I’m sorry, kitty. But it wasn’t your fault.” I reached for her. It was an awkward move, marred by pain. Still, the way the cat drew back, hissing, startled me. “What?”

  Nothing.

  “Come on.” My head was throbbing in time with my wrist. “I thought we’d gotten past this.”

  I reached out again, and, again, the Persian drew back. She raised one paw as if to smack at me. The injured paw. I got a flash of a hand, reaching just like I had. Only this hand was tipped with nail polish, not dirt.

  “Here, kitty, kitty. Come here, Fluffy.” A woman’s voice, matching the hand, soft and beckoning. For a moment, I was confused. This wasn’t right. I wasn’t hearing the animal. I was hearing something in her head. A memory.

  There was something creepy about it all. The hand, the voice that called to me, soft and sweet. I felt the pull. Loyalty, trust…the desire to be loved. “Here, kitty.”

  The hand drew closer. A pretty hand, outstretched in welcome. It smelled like soap, and yet…

  Trust.

  Quick as a slap, the image changed. Hands, hands around me. Grabbing pulling. I struggled. Screamed and spit. And the image in my mind changed. I saw the one I loved. The one I trusted. His face, a kind face, was frozen. Hatred. Fear. Then a deafening blast, like an explosion, knocked us both back. And I heard no more.

  Back in the car, alone with the cat, I blinked to clear my head. The struggle, the blast. It explained the deafness, just as I’d first suspected. It wasn’t just the sound, though. This cat had finally found love. Had opened up, only to have her beloved—and herself—betrayed. And she had shut down somehow. Had turned people—had turned me—off.

  Some of it was grief. I now understood what Lucy had been trying to tell me. She mourns. Maybe, even she withdraws. But some of it was guilt, too. I could see that now. She had warmed toward Robin, had let her in. Robin had used her to get close to Donal. Too late, the cat had responded by lashing out with rage. Deafening rage.

  The blue eyes held me, cold with hate. Had I done the same thing? Those frightening moments when I couldn’t hear—didn’t want to hear, perhaps…

  I didn’t have time for my own issues now. I needed to get the Persian back. “I get it, kitty. I do.” We sat, looking at each other long enough for something else to sink in. “I have issues with trust, too.” The cat shifted on the car seat beside me, glancing up with cool eyes. I almost smiled. “Yeah, ridiculous, I know.”

  There wasn’t time to get into it. Not that I wanted to. “Can we go back, kitty? Can we just try?” I needed to have a name for this cat. A way to reach her.

  “No. Never again.” She had turned toward the passenger side door, leaving me with only the view of her snow-white back. At least I heard that. I looked at the cat. We were talking, weren’t we?

  “If we must.” She shuffled in her seat. “Felicity.”

  My confusion must have shown on my face.

  “You keep asking.”

  “Ah, I get it. Well, thank you, Felicity. I’m Pru.”

  “No shit.”

  The human expression, coming as it did from the pristine white cat, made me smile, despite everything. In response, the white cat—Felicity—hunched up tighter. Cats cannot stand being laughed at.

  “I’m sorry, Felicity.” I held my hands up in surrender. “It’s just—well, that’s a very human expression.”

  “I’ve been hearing a lot, lately.”

  That sobered me up. “I believe it, and I’m sorry.”

  “At least you helped. Finally.” She shuffled in the seat. “At least someone did.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, whatever happened.” I thought about that beckoning hand. I’d felt its appeal, despite everything. It was pretty. It smelled welcoming.

  From the start, I’d suspected something was off about the shooting. Cats may be able to fire a weapon, but it was damned unlikely—and if I had my suspicions, then law enforcement would, too. Louise had always seemed like the strongest suspect.

  The unhappy younger wife of a wealthy man, Louise had an alibi, but people would wonder. People would question. And Robin—Robin had seemed weak and soft. But she’d been the one with teeth.

  ***

  The wind howled. I hugged myself, ignoring the pain. If only I could gather the large white cat into my arms. Our truce seemed too new, though, too tentative. “So what was Robin doing—trying to get you out of the shelter?”

  “This.” A one-word answer. Nothing else was necessary.

  “And Louise?” Silence, but I realized I knew. Creighton had told her he needed the cat. He’d told her that there might be evidence. Louise knew she was being framed—and that the cat was her last defense.

  “So why didn’t she just spring you? Take you back?”

  “Huh.” The cat chuffed, not deigning to answer. Wallis. Tadeus. All the animals, they’d tried to tell me. Fear. Robin was a predator, and Louise had been trying to stay out of her line of sight. “She burned the rags. Burned my blanket.” The cat curled in on herself. “I could smell it. I could—”

  I felt it then, the fear behind the anger. The helplessness behind the guilt. She had been with Robin—left with Donal—by a wife who wanted something, but not this. The Persian hadn’t cared. Had welcomed the visit. I heard soft words. I felt hands, trusted and warm, until they grabbed her paw. Forcing her—“No!”

  “I’m sorry.” I gathered the cat to me now, her compact body heaving with emotion. Cats don’t cry, and that was a pity. This poor creature had been forced to do the unthinkable. To hurt the one person who had shown her real kindness.

  Gently, with my good hand, I stroked her head and back. Softly, I murmured to her. Nonsense words for the most part. The kind of thing my mother probably once did for me. Outside, the storm began to die down. The wind to quiet. Eventually, the Persian stopped trembling.

  And in the quiet, an inkling of an idea was forming. Crazy as it seemed, it was possible. DNA. The news report Creighton had told me about. “Robin wanted you gone. She was afraid there would be something on you—something that would prove what she did, didn’t she? But why not—”

  I caught myself. Why not kill the cat? One thing was obvious: if Robin pretended she valued the pretty Persian, she was in a better position to set Louise up as the bad guy if the accident theory was discredited. I’d fallen for it; others would, too. After all, what good is the perfect cats’ paw if the cat is no longer around to wield it?

  The open window. “She wanted you to run away, didn’t she? She was hoping you’d end up in the woods. That you’d disappear on your own. The theory of the crime would still hold, and she could wail about losing you. And when you didn’t…” She’d been pushing for possession of the Persian from day one.

  The wind had nearly died down, but outside the car, deep in the woods, something howled. “Coyotes.” I was talking to myself, but the cat hunkered down into the seat, and I shivered. “We don’t have wolves anymore. Not here.”

  The cat was silent.

  “She wanted you to run off into the woods.” My mind kept circling around this. It was a horrible fate, devised by a cruel wo
man. But then, if I was right, Robin had arranged to kill Donal in cold blood, and set up his pet as the cause. Outside, the wolf howled.

  Chapter Fifty-one

  I slept, I must have, because at some point I started up, stiff and aching. The Persian—Felicity—was still on my lap, lying across my right leg. That was the only part of me that was warm, and I stretched my good arm to get some feeling back. Outside, I could see the sky turning gray. We might not have sun, but dawn was on its way. And so, I figured, we should be too.

  “Want to hoof it back to town?” The cat stretched and looked up at me, blinking those blue eyes. “Are we not talking again?” Without coffee, I was not in the mood.

  “Why should I?” She’d been dreaming, I got that now. Dreaming of Donal. A corduroy lap and the faint smell of pipe tobacco. No wonder she hated waking up.

  “I’m sorry, Felicity. Really.” I arched my back, the movement sending bolts of pain down my bad arm. “Look, we can’t stay here. I’m going to head out. My wrist is messed up and I’m getting sick, and it could be another week before anyone comes by here. You can stay in the car, if you want, until I come back for you. Maybe it will be the best thing.”

  “No, no cage.” She was on her feet.

  “All right.” I looked outside. The sky was lighter, streaks of yellow showing through the gray. But the woods were still black, the inky shadows stretching halfway across the road. “I’ll carry you.”

  Rather to my surprise, she let me, waiting by the open door until I could turn and scoop her up in my left hand. Bidding a silent goodbye to my blue baby, I hoisted the Persian onto my shoulder and turned toward the road. It was easier than I expected. The cat was light, lighter than Wallis, and as I turned to start down the mountain, I wondered about her captivity. Felicity had only been in Louise’s house for about twenty-four hours, but I suspected those hours had been in a locked closet or a basement. Louise might not be a killer, but she had no love for this cat. I didn’t know if she’d been eating at the shelter, either. Doc Sharpe had been busy. Pammy—less than diligent. I kicked myself. “I should have checked to make sure you ate when you were fed.”